


arms to pray with

by peacefrog



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Catholic Guilt, Hand Jobs, M/M, Monks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 20:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: “Love is not a sin,” Tomas said, the muscles of his body tense beneath the fabric of his habit.





	arms to pray with

**Author's Note:**

> The one where Marcus and Tomas are 12th century Cistercian monks with far too many POV changes.
> 
> This is probably Aelred of Rievaulx's fault.

“Love is not a sin,” Tomas said, the muscles of his body tense beneath the fabric of his habit.

Marcus turned away, eyes raking over cold stone. “It is not the pure love of my heart I fear is turning us to sin.”

“I should not have come to you in the night,” said Tomas.

“No. You shouldn’t have. I dare say we should not even be speaking now.”

“I wake every morning wishing only to speak with you.”

Marcus turned his head, gazing at Tomas from the corner of one eye. “Such thoughts should be reserved for prayer. And there is work to be done. Go now, before the Abbott finds you are not where you should be.”

Marcus willed his legs to work, moving himself down the hall and around the corner, though he swore that he could still hear Tomas breathing at his back, the ticking of his frantic heart.

—

Tomas plucked the carrots up from the dark earth, laid them gently in his basket, gazed upon the black dirt under his nails, wondering at his hands, thinking only of Marcus, what else those hands might do.

—

Vespers. Supper. Nightfall. Compline. Tomas’ cell was cramped and bare, a simple pallet on the floor stuffed with straw, a desk for writing, a window overlooking his garden. He lay on his pallet and stared at the ceiling, wondered if Marcus were sleeping. He shut his eyes to the dark, the stones around him seeming to breathe.

—

Tomas slipped down the hall, the hem of his habit brushing against the cold stone floor. Passing by Marcus’ room, he could not help but let his eyes wander to the door. Marcus sat at his desk, meticulously edging a page of his manuscript in shades of green and gold. Marcus’ brush stopped mid-stroke and he turned, looked to Tomas standing in the hall, said nothing, continued on with his work.

—

Marcus tried to keep his hand from shaking. Tomas passed out of his doorway and on down the hall, his footsteps echoing like the beating of a heart. Gently, Marcus set the brush down on the desk and rose from his chair, dropping to his knees there on the rough, hard stone, pressing a little until he felt the burn deep inside his bones.

Whispering a prayer into his clasped hands, Marcus begged for God to make him perfect, to forgive him for the thoughts of sin brought on by the sight of his friend. But the more he prayed the more he could not help but think of Tomas coming to him in the night, how he’d rested his head back against Marcus’ chest and sighed.

And had the apostle John not rested his head against the chest of their Lord? And had the Lord not loved him with all the power of his heart? And had that not been a love most pure and most divine? Marcus knew that it had without question, but knew better still that their Lord’s body had not responded to such a touch in the way that his had when Tomas joined him in his bed.

After Tomas had gone, Marcus had found himself so aroused that tears filled his eyes at the force of his aching, and he’d nearly given in to abusing himself at the thought of Tomas’ hand moving across his abdomen. Had Tomas’ hand moved any lower, he would have understood just how terribly Marcus wanted him to stay.

—

Marcus found Tomas alone in his small cell after supper. “We should not be speaking,” he said.

“And yet you have come here to speak to me now,” said Tomas, turning from where he had been gazing out the window. 

Marcus swallowed and bunched his hands into tight fists. “I only wanted to remind you. And please do not come to my bed again. It’s not right for you to be there.”

“Yes,” said Tomas, his face twisting and his eyes sad, “you’ve made yourself quite clear.”

“I don’t know why you came to me in the first place,” Marcus blurted out. The words came quicker than he could think them. “I don’t know why you would think that I wanted you there.”

“The things you had said to me. You kneeled so close to me for our evening prayers. I only thought that—”

“You thought wrong. That is not what we are here for, Tomas.”

“I have seen our brothers—”

“It does not matter what you have seen them do. Those sins are theirs and theirs alone.”

Tomas swallowed and nodded and turned his back. “Very well. You may leave me then.”

The knot of his heart aching in his chest, Marcus turned away.

—

The moon illuminated the cold stone of Tomas’ cell until every inch of it seemed to shine silver and blue. Tomas turned on his pallet and strained his neck to see out the window, the long expanse of dark sky made bright by the mystery of God’s creation. It seemed to Tomas an open eye, ever-watching and unblinking as the night moved on. 

When from the doorway came a shadow, Tomas gasped and bolted upright in his bed. “Who’s there?”

The shadow moved into the light of the moon, and Marcus’ face came into view. Without words he moved toward Tomas in the corner, knelt down next to his pallet and pressed his hand firmly to Tomas’ chest. Beneath his habit, Tomas’ heart fluttered frantically as songbird wings. 

Tomas met Marcus’ hooded gaze in the blue light. “You said…”

Marcus moved his hand to Tomas’ neck, curving his palm around the warm skin there. “I only came to say,” he whispered, his chest rising and falling quickly, “that I’m sorry for my harsh words.”

“You need not apologize,” Tomas said softly, his fingers skimming along the sleeve of Marcus’ habit. “You were only speaking the truth.”

“Even so, we are brothers in the eyes of God, and I do not wish to be unkind to you.”

“It’s all right,” Tomas assured him, resting his hand gently against Marcus’ chest, his heart hammering as quickly as Tomas’ own. “Would you like to stay here with me for a while?”

“I shouldn’t,” Marcus said, though his hand remained on Tomas’ skin. “I should go now, back to my own bed.”

“All right,” Tomas said, Marcus’ habit caught beneath his fingers. “All right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Slowly, Marcus pulled his hand away. “Sleep well, Tomas.”

“And you as well, my friend.”

Marcus hesitated a moment, then pulled himself to his feet. He paused in the doorway, looked back over his shoulder in the dark, and then he was gone. Tomas lay back on his pallet, the skin of his neck still warm from where Marcus had touched him. The warmth spreading now down to his toes.

—

Tomas saw Marcus watching him in his garden, too far away to speak, but close enough to see that he was smiling.

—

During vespers Marcus was close again. So close that Tomas could feel the warmth of him through the layers of their habits. At supper they ate together, though they did not speak.

And when Marcus said goodnight to Tomas, he did so trailing the tips of his fingers along the slope of Tomas’ shoulder, down his arm, breaking contact only when he had to, when the aching line of his body at last pulled him away.

—

Marcus prayed all night, his bare knees pressed to the unforgiving stone of the floor. He prayed and he prayed until his flesh came away tender and bruised, bones sore with every step that he took come morning.

—

Three days passed without a word passing between them. Tomas could still feel the warmth of Marcus’ touch upon his skin.

—

Beneath the tip of his brush, in a corner of one crowded page of his manuscript, Marcus brought to life two figures, tangled together, their faces obscured so that they barely looked like anything at all. But in his heart, Marcus knew.

—

Night came with the gentle fury of a dozen passing days, and when the shadow appeared again in Tomas’ doorway he knew that this time would be different. Marcus moved to him with steady purpose, dropped down to his knees, and Tomas shifted closer to the wall at his back so that Marcus could lay beside him.

“Love is not a sin,” Marcus whispered, moving nearer, burying his face in the hollow of Tomas’ throat.

And then there came a burning, a light growing and simmering between them with the force of a thousand nights and days spent entangled in this holy dance. Marcus’ arousal pressed into Tomas’ hip, and Tomas pulled away.

“Love is not a sin, but this is,” said Tomas, his own arousal growing in spite of silent prayers. “We both know that this is.”

Marcus reached over pressed his hand to Tomas’ chest. “I have decided that God will forgive us. We will confess our sins and do our penance together.” Marcus’ hand trembled gently atop Tomas’ habit. “Just this once. Just this once and we shall be healed.”

Tomas turned his face to Marcus, so close that he could feel the rush of his breath upon his own lips. “I don’t know how… I don’t.” Tomas felt suddenly that the breath was seizing in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to do this, Marcus.”

“Neither do I,” Marcus laughed softly, and Tomas opened his eyes to the soft glow of Marcus in the dark.

Tomas turned his body to face Marcus, trembling so terribly he feared the whole monastery could hear the knocking of his bones. Their bodies curving together, Marcus rested his hand gently on Tomas’ shoulder, sliding it slowly down his arm, over the rough fabric of his habit. He was shaking just as terribly as Tomas now, the two of them leaves caught in a steady breeze, bodies warm as an afternoon spent out in the sun.

They moved slowly at first, uncertain what to do with their hands, foreheads knocking together and lips brushing, too afraid to let them come together. And then quickly, their bodies moving with wanting and terror, they both began bunching up the fabric of their habits, shoving the thin fabric of their undergarments down around their knees.

“Is this all right?” Marcus asked, voice shaking steadily as his hands.

“Yes,” Tomas said, because it was, and because he could hardly think to say anything else.

And then Marcus’ hand was on him, and Tomas was certain his heart was going to stop before either of them had a chance to do penance for their sin. It would be worth the extra time spent in Purgatory he decided, and uncertain he was even breathing he took Marcus in his hand.

Tomas had never felt closer to God than he did suddenly in that moment, his uncertain hand stroking along the length of Marcus, pulling heavenly little gasps from the cage of his chest. And the way that Marcus touched him, as though he were divine, something worthy of the deepest worship of his body and his heart. Such thoughts were blasphemy, Tomas knew, but were their bodies not made in the image of their Lord? 

Marcus touched Tomas in such a way then that all other thoughts were ripped from him at once, and the room wrapping around them seemed to tip and spin, the very floor beneath them rippling and moving like the strongest of currents. The pressure built and burst as suddenly as it had begun, like the sky opening overhead and giving up her rain, and Tomas had to use his free hand to cover his mouth to keep from crying out. And then Marcus’ lips were on his lips, and the hand that Tomas used to bring Marcus to his end came away sticky and warm. 

Marcus’ breath moved in and out of Tomas’ lungs. Marcus became his breathing.

Tomas anticipated the guilt but it didn’t come, not just then, not in that one blissful moment as they held close to one another in the dark. Eyes gently shut and a smile upon his lips, Marcus let out a great sigh and whispered, “Let us pray together.”

His blood drumming loudly, Tomas let his eyes slide shut, and together they began to pray.


End file.
